Volleyball
by Lavender and Hay
Summary: AU, OOC, wild, volleyball-centred madness. Featuring Dr Clarkson, Isobel, Hughsie, Sybil and Matthew.
1. Chapter 1

**A fic about volleyball. Out of character, probably anachronistic, AU and quite feminist. Featuring Isobel/Dr Clarkson and appearances from Mrs Hughes, Sybil and Matthew. In the style of _Feminism Begins at Home _and _Drunk Mrs Hughes._ It is probably impossible that it could be any sillier. **

**Something of a Prologue: The Morning After.**

When Isobel awoke, it was with such a feeling in her head that no polite words could describe. As if from a great distance, she heard herself let out a groan: the light in the room seemed very bright indeed, and that probably meant it was morning by now. It was then that she realised that she did not appear to be waking up in her own bed. Or indeed, in a bed at all. Feeling cautiously around herself, she discovered that she was lying on the couch in the front room, of all places. She sat up slowly and immediately regretted it: a dull ache filled the bottom of her back and her left knee, and she groaned again. Once she had manoeuvred herself into a sitting position, she glanced across the room to where she could just about see the top of her head in the mirror over the fireplace. To say that her hair- that had been so neatly pinned back for her yesterday- stood at a jaunty angle would have been an understatement.

And then, when her eyes flitted momentarily towards the floor, she saw something that nearly made her roll sideways off the couch. Sound asleep on the carpet beside the couch where she had apparently slept for the night, was Dr Clarkson. Memories of the previous afternoon and evening began, one by one, to fill her mind and she was struck by the over-whelming urge to curse out loud. Hastily, wanting to rule out the worst possibilities, she scanned his clothing for any signs of anything- or anyone- having lain on top of during the night (thankfully, she did not find any). That was something of a relief: the chances were, then, that she only had to feel embarrassed about her foolish activity of the previous afternoon, as opposed to last night as well.

She was sitting there propped precariously up on her arms, aching all over her body by now and squinting against the bright light, when the sitting room door opened. Frantically, she wondered what possible excuse she could give to Molesley to account for this odd state of affairs. However, it was not her butler's bewildered face that she encountered, but her son's. Matthew took in the scene; his mother, looking very much worse for wear on the couch, and the sleeping doctor on the floor and simply gaped towards the older generation, at a complete loss for what to say. Really, Isobel thought, he had even been there for most of the afternoon, he had less grounds than most people would have done to be shocked. Still, when she opened her mouth to say some intelligent and wise in her defence, nothing particularly came to mind. All she seemed to be able to manage was to look sheepishly at her still bewildered son.

"Dr Clarkson came to call then?" he surmised, barely keeping the mirth out of his tone, "It's alright," he added quickly, obviously seeing the look of mutiny on his mother's face, "I'll go and keep Molesley at bay until you get the chance to sort yourself out."

And with that, he leapt back out of the room and just managed to get the door closed on time to muffle the laughter that Isobel heard issuing from the corridor. Isobel groaned again, lying back down on the couch with a dull thump. She did not notice that her company was stirring too.

"Mrs Crawley?" a confused voice issued from the direction of the floor and she quickly sat up again.

Dr Clarkson was now propped up unsteadily, taking in his surroundings- and the back of his hair sticking up, much like the whole of Isobel's head was.

"Hello," she smiled down at him, too cheerfully, the most irrational impulse to act as if this was completely normal coming over her. It seemed to confuse him even more.

"What happened?" he wanted to know, "How am I here?"

"Don't you remember?" she enquired, "Allow me to jog your memory. Volleyball!"

It was his turn to groan audibly and sink back down to where he had been lying.

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	2. Chapter 2

**A Plan**

Matthew was at first contented, if rather pleased, with the answer his mother gave him. But what came next, he had to admit, rather worried him.

"Of course you must go," she told him, as Molesley set the new pot of coffee down on the table beside her, "It sounds a thrilling game! Heavens, I might see if Dr Clarkson will take me for this team of his! What did you say it was called?"

"Er, volleyball, Mother." He hoped that she had been joking with this last remark. But, then again, this was his mother. "Dr Clarkson saw it played when he was visiting his brother in America ten years ago, and he thought it would be a fine thing to start playing it here, improve our fitness and so on." It surely boded very ill that his mother was nodding her approval of this idea, but still he pressed on, " Shortly after he got back he told Dr Philips from Ripon about it, and they set up a yearly fixture; six _men_ from Downton play six from Ripon. This year it's time for it to be held at Downton."

The look in his mother's eye as she returned to her toast was a disconcerting one. He hoped he had stressed heavily enough that it was typically men who played in this fixture. That, however, held no sway over his mother on any other matter, so it was probably foolish to expect that it would over this one. In this, at least, his judgement turned out to be very accurate indeed.

"When did you say the trials are, dear?"

There was no mechanism for him to avoid telling her. He could flatly refuse to, but knowing his mother, she would find out from another source.

"They're on Wednesday," he said, then added quickly, "Mother, you won't do anything rash, will you?"

She blinked at him with- feigned- innocence over the toast.

"I haven't a rash bone in my body," she told him.

"Dr Clarkson might not agree with that," he replied as levelly as possible, "Mother, please think about this! You are... of an age now, and I'd hate to think you were damaging yourself just to prove a point to Dr Clarkson!"

It appeared that she was going to ignore this last comment altogether.

"I shall attend the trials on Wednesday," she informed him, with an imperiousness that would have been superb had she not been directing it at him, "And if I prove proficient enough at this game; which I have not doubt that I will- goodness, there can't be many men in Downton in good shape- Dr Clarkson will just have to have me on his team, whether he wants me or not!"

…**...**

After Monday's breakfast, however, Isobel was rather ashamed to admit that she felt her conviction on the subject of volleyball wavering a little bit. Matthew did have a point, though she was loathe to admit it: she was getting on in years. A woman, getting on in years, and marching into the Downton Village volleyball trials against a lot of young men had every potential to make a perfect fool of herself. Not that she intended to back out; she very much suspected that it was too late now anyway, Dr Clarkson had probably been told of her plans by now. She had absolutely no choice, then: the thought of his mildly condescending air of male pride had her absolutely convinced that she must challenge his ways as a matter of principle. What she needed was an accomplice in this; then, if she _did _end up looking foolish there would be someone to draw the focus away from herself. It would do her no harm, either, she thought, to socialise a little more with the young.

And with this thought fixed firmly in mind, she strode into Downton Abbey and informed the first person she saw, Carson, that she would like to see Lady Sybil.

…**...**

"But of course we must go!" Sybil replied without a moment's hesitation, "I've always thought it would be such terrific fun to try playing volleyball. It's so different to riding. And I think Mama would probably tell me how it's played, if I didn't tell her why I wanted to know."

Settled in the drawing room with their cups of tea, they seemed to have come to a decision. Together Sybil and Isobel would challenge the male tyranny that ruled over Downton volleyball team. Isobel settled back in her chair.

"The only thing that concerns me is that I'm not quite as young as I was," she admitted, "I rather confess, I wouldn't usually say that I could outdo five young men at a sporting activity, but in this case I rather feel as if I have to."

"It is not how old you are," Sybil told her with an air of great wisdom, "But how you are old. At least that's what Granny says whenever she's trying to get away with something. Anyway, it's not five young men at all: I'll be on the team as well, so it's only four, and I'd hardly say that Dr Clarkson was in the first flush of youth!"

"He plays as well?" Isobel asked, quite surprised. He had rather struck her as the kind of team manager who sat at the side and barked instructions at people.

"Yes, very much so," Sybil told her, "I went to watch last year and I have to say he was rather better than I expected he would be. He has a very hands-on sort of approach to the whole thing."

"Does he, now?" Isobel raised an eyebrow.

Sybil giggled into her tea.

"And another thing," Isobel continued, "What does one wear for sporting activity these days? I've got an old light skirt that I used to wear if I was playing tennis, but I suppose it probably went out of my size a good ten years ago, never mind fashion!"

"That's a point," Sybil agreed, "We'll need someone to sort us out with all of the clothes we need. It's no good asking one of the housemaids to do it, even Anna, she looks after Mary and Edith too and they're bound to find out, and O'Brien would run straight to Mama." 

The door opened quietly in the background and, turning, Isobel saw the housekeeper enter and head for the sideboard. She exchanged a look with Sybil.

"What about...?" she jerked her head in the direction of the housekeeper.

Sybil nodded approvingly.

"Mrs Hughes," she addressed the housekeeper, "You were once Mama's lady's maid, weren't you?"

"I was, m'Lady."

"I wonder if you'd mind doing Cousin Isobel and I the most spectacular favour..."

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	3. Chapter 3

**For those of you unfamiliar with volleyball: a dig is a shot played when the ball is coming at quite a low angle, and is played by hitting it from underneath with the wrists to launch it back into the air. All the other shots are pretty much what they sound like. Each team is only allowed three touches of the ball before it must go back to the other side of the court or they forfeit the point and the same player is not allowed to hit the ball twice consecutively. If the ball bounces in on your side of the court you lose the point. If anything needs clarifying, tell me.**

**The Trials**

It took a while, but at last Isobel reached a decision as to what she would wear to confront Dr Clarkson in a volleyball-centred environment. Or, more appropriately, Mrs Hughes and Sybil, who were marginally better versed in the sporting fashions, had chosen for her. After much doing up of buttons and scraping back of hair, she finally inspected herself in the mirror in Sybil's room. It was safe to say that she was probably wearing the oddest assortment of clothes she had ever had on in her life.

In the end, she had borrowed a tennis skirt from Mrs Hughes, there hadn't been much chance of her fitting into any of the one's the girls owned. Precisely what the housekeeper was doing with a tennis skirt of her own was rather beyond Isobel, but a seen as it was a good fit she decided she didn't need to know; once she had been offered the hurried and unconvincing explanation that it had been bought on a whim.

"Do I look alright?" she asked, for about the fourth time.

Sybil, lying idly on her bed, having already got dressed, lifted her head to look rather incredulously at her cousin.

"No worse than you did when you last asked," she replied rather pointedly, "All of five minutes ago."

"I don't want to look a fool," Isobel impressed upon her, patting her own hair down though it was already lying flat, "As I remember we're doing this to prove that we're as capable as any man is, and it'll make a good start if we turn up looking like something from the gaiety!"

Sybil laughed, and Mrs Hughes, coming back in just in time to catch the end of this exclamation, seemed to roll her eyes. Isobel, turned back to the mirror once more.

"Where did you find this blouse, Mrs Hughes?" she wanted to know, "I've never seen one with a collar like this before. I do rather like it, I didn't know they made them like this."

"They don't," Mrs Hughes told her, "Not for women, anyway. It's his Lordship's."

This seemed to amuse Sybil even further. Probably, Isobel thought, because she herself looked somewhat horrified, and not without reason: she had been under the impression that they had been going to show the men of the village that they could match them at the sports they played, she hadn't realised that this challenge extended to their clothes as well!

"Don't worry," the housekeeper assured her, "He'll never know."

Sybil was watching her cousin with a raised eyebrow, and her head at a jaunty angle.

"You're not having second thoughts, are you?" she enquired levelly.

This rallied Isobel somewhat: she wasn't the type to have second thoughts at all. The fact that in this case she might not even have got as far as first thoughts was immaterial. She pushed back her shoulders defiantly.

"No," shoe told them both firmly, "Not in the least. Come on," she added to them, "We had better get going or we'll be late."

Sybil got up off the bed.

"You'll have a marvellous time once you're there," Mrs Hughes told her kindly, "Just don't be nervous: you're there to prove a point."

"Are you going to come with us?" Sybil asked her, "You'd be welcome to, after all, it's your afternoon off, isn't it?"

"Yes, I think I might," Mrs Hughes replied, "But only to watch, though."

…**...**

Isobel had been right, it did seem as she and Sybil arrived in the village hall that Dr Clarkson had been ready for the chance that they might appear. There was almost an air of excitement in the air, of speculation. She clearly saw the corner of Matthew's mouth twitch disagreeably as they walked in. Irritated by this- by now, she'd have thought the boy would have realised that she meant exactly what she said- she set her jaw a little more firmly and raised her chin a little bit. She saw him frown, and then disappear behind Molesley; who it seemed was running on the spot in preparation. Sybil, meanwhile, was talking to the esteemed team manager.

"Certainly, I understand, m'Lady," he replied, though still looking a little put out at their sheer nerve in just being there, "And of course, I will consider you for the team. I don't see that it should be a problem."

"Good," Sybil answered politely, but not without a hint of curtness. Isobel nodded briskly to the doctor and he, a little disconcerted, nodded back before turning around to blow his whistle and address the group at large.

Sybil shot a triumphant look at her cousin in the light of the success of this exchange with the doctor and received one in return. Their militancy was paying off!

…**...**

The first activity set was, in theory, simple. Once they had been instructed in the main shots that could be played they were given one volleyball between two and told practice keeping a rally going for as long as possible. This had been going marvellously when they had only been using the volley shot, in fact it had almost appeared as if they were impressing Dr Clarkson with their control and- much to Isobel's great delight- agility. That was all very well until Isobel discovered her proficiency at the dig. It was rather astonishing just how high she managed to wallop the ball with just the movement of her arms. "Height", Dr Clarkson had told them, was a volleyball player's watchword and so Isobel decided to capitalise on this God-given aptitude she obviously had and put all of her might into it. Unfortunately, on her next attempt she dislodged a good deal of plaster from the ceiling.

Sybil was delighted with this progress, and Isobel was able to ignore the downpour of minute pieces of plaster for a moment before she found herself being accosted by the good doctor, trying to correct her movement.

"Go from the knees," he instructed her, "Not the elbows. It will be so much more controlled then."

Isobel was about to reply rather snappishly that, at her age, the knees were not something to set too much store in, but remembered that she was here to prove her competence; and so grudgingly went to it without complaint. It was true though, in this last half an hour, her knees had been unaccountably given to giving way, and she was not quite sure why.

"Come here."

Before she knew what was happening, Dr Clarkson had taken hold of her wrist. She was in the midst of wondering what on earth he was playing at- with some quite frankly astonishing results- when the reality struck that he was correcting her hand position. Her knees seemed to deem that this would be an appropriate time to buckle, again.

"That's right," he told her, apparently thinking that she was practising digging from the knees, "Just like that. Throw the ball to Mrs Crawley, and give it another try."

It was true, this time when Isobel hit the ball it rose in a much more orderly fashion and not quite as high as before. Unfortunately, this time when it rose it hit the lamp hanging from the ceiling; which quivered alarmingly. Isobel did not miss the vague hints of wonderment mixed with despair in the good doctor's eyes.

…**...**

The next phase of the trial was to play in a game. A court was set up in the middle of the hall and the players divided into three teams. Isobel and Sybil had the good fortune to find themselves on the same team, and the slightly less good fortune to find themselves on Matthew's; who was looking mildly disapproving every time his mother caught his eye. They were shortly joined by Molesley, Dr Clarkson and Branson- who they had not noticed up until then but who assured them he was all in favour of "this sort of thing".

Their team was going to play first, and they took to the court with a vague spirit of optimism. What with Isobel's mastery of the dig, Sybil's rather astonishingly good serve, Dr Clarkson's expertise and Matthew's height, they thought they stood a decent chance at least. They had not yet had the chance to practice the smash, but, Sybil said, they were sure to get the hang of it. They decided to put three people at the front of the court and three at the back, and Sybil took the place for the first serve.

Indeed, once Sybil had had her allocated three serves, they were three points in the lead without anyone else having to lift a finger. Then, the serve went to the other team.

"Right now, everyone, get ready," Dr Clarkson told them, "You don't know where this is going to go to."

Isobel looked across the court, to discover somewhat to her horror that the server was Thomas the footman. Goodness, she thought, that dreadful O'Brien woman will never live this down once she gets to hear about it.

Thomas served the ball cleanly over the net and towards the centre of the court. It was probably well within the reach of all six of them, but each seemed to assume that someone else would pick it up and the ball dropped onto the floor of the court.

"Communication!" Dr Clarkson reminded them.

"3-1," Thomas announced as he picked the ball up for his next serve.

This time, the soared clearly towards Sybil, who from the back of the court, volleyed it, but straight down into the floor in front of her.

"I'm sorry," she told them all, "I couldn't decided whether it should have been a dig or a volley."

"Never mind," Matthew told her, "Just get out of the way next time you do that, so someone else can get it. Mother, if Sybil volleys it from the back again, be ready to jump in and wallop it back at them." 

Clearly, Matthew had forgotten all of his qualms about her age.

"3-2," called Thomas.

The competitive spirit was beginning to show in Dr Clarkson, Isobel noted; a muscle twitched in his jaw as he got ready for the next shot. This time, it was served to him, and, with irritating precision and control, he comfortably dug it into the air. Next, Molesley volleyed it straight up to the net. And Isobel now realised that _this _was when a smash would be used, and she promptly walloped it over the net and down towards the centre of the court, straight at Thomas' feet.

"Look out, Mrs Hughes!"

The shot had ricocheted of the ground at such speed that it down headed towards where the housekeeper was perched on a bench watching. She ducked quickly out of its way, impressively managing to stay on the bench.

It was undeniable that the team from then on came to see Isobel in a new light.

…**...**

The next day, Isobel and Sybil were none too interested in hiding their haste as they walked through the village to inspect the noticeboard outside the village hall. The notice was certainly economic with detail; simply stating that the match would be on the following Tuesday evening at the village hall and six names were listed below.

R. Clarkson

T. Branson

T. Barrow

M. Crawley

S. Crawley

I. Crawley

There was a note below.

A. Molesley and E. Hughes to attend as reserves and to help with first aid &c.

"What on earth does Dr Clarkson need a first aider there for?" Sybil wanted to know, "He _is _a doctor, after all!"

Isobel, however, was looking at the first part of the sentence.

"As reserves?" she repeated, "Goodness, he must have thought everyone else was really appalling, she didn't even play and she's near enough got on the team!

"Perhaps he was impressed by the speed with which she got out of the way of all of your shots," Sybil pointed out, "Why ever he's put her on there, we're probably going to have a lot of explaining to do when we next see her."

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	4. Chapter 4

**Sorry about the delay with actually getting to the match, but I think it is part of my perception of sporting events, that they must be preceded by a bus ride. Also, I was rather amused by the bus that Mrs Hughes had to hike her way into in S2E5.**

**On reflection, in terms of character development, this certainly seems to be more of a series 2 fic than a series one, but in that case, it's another one where I've cancelled the war. **

"But why?" the housekeeper asked again, as the three of them left the main house- all dressed in full volleyball-playing regalia- to walk down to the village hall together, when her question was not adequately answered by the other two, "Why do we have to play in Ripon? I thought we were supposed to be _playing_ at the village hall, not getting the bus from there."

Sybil cast a rather grim look at her cousin.

"_Someone _has put the village hall out of use, for the foreseeable future," she informed Mrs Hughes, quite dryly. Isobel looked down at her feet. "Quite a large patch of the ceiling is now without any plaster on it."

Isobel was quite eager to divert the conversation away from her unintentional vandalism- or at least from its setbacks.

"But on the bright side this means that the whole village can hardly turn up to watch us," she told them both firmly, "If we shall look fools, we shall look fools in front of strangers, which is marginally better than in front of people we know."

Mrs Hughes gave her a rather steely look.

"I have no intention of looking like a fool at all," she informed them both, in a tone that moved neither of them to question it, "Because I'm not going to play. I'll have a hard time looking a fool when I'm just sitting on the reserves' bench."

There was a moment's pause before either Sybil or Isobel dared to offer up the potential complication that had formed in both their minds.

"Unless anyone gets injured," Sybil pointed out carefully.

"If anyone gets injured, I shall perform first aid on them," Mrs Hughes replied smoothly, "That is apparently what I'm there for. Though I can't think why; I assume that Dr Clarkson is indeed a doctor?" here she looked questioningly at Isobel.

Isobel had never been given any reason- apart from this- to doubt that it was true.

"Perhaps he's worried in case he gets injured himself," she mused quietly.

Perhaps she mused a little too much: Elsie saw Sybil's head snap sharply around to look at her cousin.

"Cousin Isobel," she began testily, "What are you planning?"

"I'm not planning anything!" Isobel insisted, looking quite genuinely astonished at the suggestion of a plan, perhaps too much so, "I was just saying that Dr Clarkson is just as likely as the rest of us to trip over, or hit his hand off the post, or be hit in the face by the ball...-"

"I was right!" Sybil concluded triumphantly, "You are plotting something! You want to have him thrown off his own team to make a point about women being as able to play as men. Gracious, Cousin Isobel, you're even more of a militant than I am!"

Isobel now looked at her young cousin as if she were being quite silly.

"Mrs Hughes, does it sound to you as if I'm plotting anything?" she wanted to know.

"I don't know. I refuse to say. I am purely here in the capacity as a first aider, and nothing more."

"See, Mrs Hughes agrees with me."

They continued in this fashion until they reached the main street, at which point they thought it best to stop, in case they were overheard, and in case Isobel was indeed further plotting against Dr Clarkson and it got them all into trouble.

When they reached the village hall, sure enough, there was the village bus waiting for them- hired at an exorbitant fee, they had been told- and the good doctor standing beside it. Due to the fact that the bus appeared to be full, they were not the first ones there. What was more, when they got closer to it, they saw that it was Edith sitting in the driver's seat. Sensing danger at once, this encouraged Sybil to increase her pace until she was level with the vehicle. Isobel and Elsie caught up with her in time to hear a loud Irish voice calling from the seat behind the driver's one.

"M'Lady, I really think it would be best if you let me drive. It's not like I don't do it for a living!"

"Edith, dear, I think Branson's right, you should come and sit by me."

Elsie and Isobel exchanged a look of horror at the sound of American tones rising from the bus. Surely her Ladyship wasn't going to be there?

"Oh, but Mama, Branson's got to play as well, and we're bound to lose if he's worn out from driving before we even get there."

Their dread only increased when- as they drew level with Dr Clarkson- his Lordship's voice issued from the bus as well.

"Edith, I think we've a much better chance of winning with Branson a little tired than the whole team having died before we get to Ripon."

There was the sound of much huffing as Branson and Edith finally changed places. At the presence of even more of her relatives than she'd expected, Isobel was beginning to look a bit off.

"Gracious, Dr Clarkson," Elsie turned towards him, "Have you got the whole house on the bus?"

"Well, I thought as we were paying for the transport, we might as well take everyone who wanted to go," he replied, "Quite a few of the staff have come along for the trip; which I think is wonderful: get a few of the youngsters primed for next year's team."

"A few of the staff?" Elsie repeated, not being able to remember giving _anyone _permission to come and watch this, on the off chance that she did end up playing, "Are you certain? I can't think who'd have let them, unless-"

She stopped; having heaved open the door of the bus and come face to face with a very familiar and impeccably polished pair of shoes. She knew the second she saw them who was on the bus, and who had given the staff permission to come along, because no one else had shoes that black; yet she still looked up at Charles Carson's face with a vague sense of dread.

"Hello," she told him, stupidly.

"Good afternoon, Mrs Hughes," he got out of the bus to help her in. She was unwilling to concede just how grateful she was for his assistance; it was rather a hike otherwise, she was in such a state of surprise. Mrs Crawley's eyes on her expression were rather too fixed for her liking.

Isobel turned towards the doctor herself now, as Carson followed Mrs Hughes into the bus. The look on the housekeeper's face was quite a picture.

"Quite a turn out," she remarked to Dr Clarkson, as the door beside them closed, "Any sign of Matthew and Molesley yet?"

"Yes, they've already been here. I sent them back to the hospital to get an emergency supply of bandages. To keep Mrs Hughes busy until she's called upon to play."

She cast him a look; half admiring his bravery. It did not escape him.

"Oh yes," he told her, "Elsie Hughes will play, whether she likes it or not. With reactions like that, I'd be a living breathing fool not to use her."

Her laugh was not without a hint of resentment that he was not praising her own reactions, and with a fleeting dread that it would be her who was substituted off to make room for the housekeeper. She wondered hysterically if she and the doctor had established some kind of Scottish camaraderie between themselves.

"Where are the spare seats?" she asked, hoping to steer the conversation into happier climbs, and also because the bus was nearly full with the staff and she really wasn't going to get a seat if she didn't settle herself soon.

"Well, if Matthew and Mr Molesley sit together, that should leave one at the front and one at the back, beside me."

"Who's at the front?"

"Robert, will you kindly move your feet from under my chair? I know there isn't a great deal of legroom on here, but nor is there much room for my walking stick."

Isobel felt a little of the colour drain from her face.

"Dr Clarkson, I think I'll take my chances at the back of the bus with you."

Holding out her hand, she allowed him to help her into the back seat of the bus, beside Carson and Mrs Hughes. Apparently the butler and housekeeper had not trusted any of the younger staff to sit there without canoodling, and so had occupied the space themselves. However, having reached this decision, Mrs Hughes had refused to speak to him any further; she was still so put out by the surprise of him having been there in the first place. Isobel exchanged a rather perplexed look with the doctor and received a small shrug in reply.

The afternoon certainly promised to be interesting, if more than a little dangerous.

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	5. Chapter 5

**I have actually drawn out little team tactics plans for them. Perhaps things can go too far. **

**The First Half.**

Not very much later, the bus pulled over to the front door of Ripon Church Hall. Mrs Hughes was the first one out. Following her lead, Dr Clarkson, the rest of the team and Molesley left next, leaving their supporters to gather the bottles of water and first aid box, and to lock the door of the bus behind them. As they made their way through the hall's foyer- full of spectators from Ripon- Dr Clarkson frantically muttered last-minute tactics to Branson and Matthew on either side of him. Thomas- largely uninterested in anything as sensible as a strategy- walked a little way behind them with Miss O'Brien, as if he were the greatest sportsman of the age. Molesley looked rather lost among the bustle of people chatting to one another and drinking cups of tea. The was considerable excitement among the crowd when they discovered that the Earl of Grantham was in attendance. Temporarily despairing of their male colleagues, Isobel and Sybil made haste to see where Mrs Hughes had got to.

They found her in the main room of the hall- the volleyball court already set up- sitting on the team bench that she had apparently claimed as theirs.

"What was all of that about?" Isobel asked her, sitting down beside her.

Mrs Hughes had her hands pressed over her face, and looked rather despairing.

"Mrs Hughes? Elsie!" Isobel's raised tones seemed to snap the housekeeper back down to earth for a moment. She looked at Isobel and then at Sybil rather blearily. There was still a good deal of disbelief in her face. Isobel bristled a little, trying to be as business-like as possible; "Look, I know you weren't expecting him to be here, but you're right, you probably won't have to play." She tried to forget what Dr Clarkson had said to her earlier about Mrs Hughes' role in the team, and about the suspicions that had arisen over Scottish camaraderie. "You can't think he'd disapprove of you; I imagine he's turned up to watch because he found out you were on the team."

She hoped that her conspiratorial nudge that accompanied this suggestion might act to raise Elsie's spirits a little bit. It didn't. Mrs Hughes' face wore a look of blank and absolute dejection.

"He will disapprove, when he sees what I'm wearing."

Isobel honestly had no idea what to say to that, or indeed what to think, and exchanged an alarmed glance with Sybil. Mrs Hughes obviously saw this, and rolled her eyes at them; perhaps, then, it was not as bad as Isobel had supposed. The housekeeper shrugged her coat off her shoulders.

"Well, what's wrong with that?" Isobel asked, "It looks rather like what I wore when I played-... Oh, Mrs Hughes," she gasped, horrified, "You haven't been helping yourself to Mr Carson's shirts, have you?"

Sybil burst out laughing, and earned herself a scowl from both of her companions.

"Well, he wasn't supposed to show up at the match!" Mrs Hughes protested, "How was I to know he'd be here?"

Isobel was saved from having to give an answer by the arrival of the rest of the team through the doors. Like lightening Elsie shrugged her coat back on. Behind Molesley, the first dribs and drabs of spectators began to pile into the hall and take their seats. Isobel noticed a muscle tighten in the housekeeper's jaw, and decided it would be best to say no more. Instead, she turned her attention to Dr Clarkson, who seemed to be on the verge of giving some sort of team-talk. She braced herself not to laugh at this ludicrous display of male egotism.

"Now," he was saying, "This is going to be a tough match. But its not beyond our reach. We are a good team, with good players on it. We are all mentally prepared-..."

"Mentally prepared!" evidently, Mrs Hughes' resolve to keep quiet was not as strong in this case as Isobel's was. The housekeeper- evidently in a frightful mood- turned to Isobel and muttered with great disgruntlement, "Where does he think we are? The Olympic Games?"

On Mrs Hughes' other side, Isobel heard a giggle from Sybil. The men looked on, Dr Clarkson in particular, disconcerted by this display of female dissidence.

"It is evidently Mrs Hughes' day to take exception to authority," he muttered to Thomas beside him, as if it was what was to be expected, having women on the team, and that was why he'd always avoided it. Unfortunately Mrs Hughes heard him.

"Too right it is!" (Thomas was later heard to mutter something about the housekeeper having the ears of a bat as well as the disposition of one.)

To remedy this minor setback, Isobel patted Mrs Hughes on the back and looked back up at Dr Clarkson to show him that he had her attention, and that she was not quite as dissident as Mrs Hughes was. Yet.

"My God," Branson- whose absence Isobel had not noticed- came back over to the team, looking rather alarmed, "Have you seen the size of that big fellow over there?"

He pointed to the other side of the court where Dr Philips and the Ripon team had assembled. Sure enough, more than one of their players seemed to be on the tall and- dare Isobel say it?- muscular side of things. Her eyes snapped back to Dr Clarkson; who she thought was doing rather well at disguising his anxiety. From the front row of the spectator seats, Violet could be seen to be eyeing up the opposition with a steely gaze, her walking stick grasped imperiously in her hand. From the row behind her, Miss O'Brien could be seen doing almost exactly the same.

Dr Clarkson cleared his throat.

"Like I was saying, this will be a challenge, but not impossible," he told them, "Just go out thinking we can win, and we'll be a lot closer to it," he concluded.

"Aren't you going to tell the rest of the team the plan?" Matthew asked, evidently feeling that the doctor had finished his speech rather prematurely.

"Ah yes! The plan!"

Out the corner of her eye, Isobel saw Mrs Hughes shake her head in moderate disbelief- she suspected that the housekeeper did not often have to tolerate men who went and forgot to tell people their plans, she supposed Mr Carson was probably much more organised that the doctor was-, as the rest of the team leant a little bit closer to listen to this wonderful strategy.

"Right: starting six start on the court," he told them in a business-like- but rather unnecessary command-, "Lady Sybil, you serve first. I want Mrs Crawley one place to your left in the rotation. Matthew on his mother's left. Then Branson, then Barrow, then myself. Mrs Hughes and Molesley on the bench."

Mrs Hughes muttered that that was certainly alright with her. Isobel exchanged a fleeting glance with Dr Clarkson and saw exactly what she had expected in his face: she suspected very much that Elsie would find herself on the court during the second half, or earlier.

"How many games are we playing?" Sybil wanted to know as the team got up to sort themselves out before facing the opposition.

"Four games: the first to fifteen points each time," Dr Clarkson told her, "I wanted five, but that rogue Philips said that we'd only call the fifth game if it's two-two at the end of the second half."

…**...**

"No! You hopeless fools!"

All was not well for Team Downton and despite her previous reluctance to play on several counts, Elsie was starting to wish she could run onto the court and show that idiot Thomas how to really hit a volleyball. At the start of the day, she had been doubtful that she would agree with Dr Clarkson over any issue; but now she found she had to: Dr Philips was a rogue, a rogue of the highest order. He must have picked his team months ago to be this good.

To give them their due, Lady Sybil and Mrs Crawley were putting up a noble fight. More than noble, they were actually quite as good as any of the young men on either team. At one point, she distinctly saw one of the Ripon players look almost terrified when the ball- having just been smashed over the net by Isobel- came flying straight for him. Having seen this, Elsie rather suspected that- aside from Dr Clarkson being head-over-heels in love with the woman- Mrs Crawley was on the team to put the fear of God into the other team. The sad fact remained, however that Downton were losing the first game 10-3.

He had been right, there wasn't a bad player on the team; but Ripon were better at communicating, at staying in their positions, at setting up shots for each other: they were just a better team than they were.

She turned rather helplessly towards young Mr Crawley on the bench beside her- he had had to come off a little while ago after an awkward hit when his thumb was bent backwards- as Mr Molesley dived on the floor, only to miss the shot altogether. 11-3.

They winced collectively. Over in the spectator seats, Lady Violet scowled her disapproval.

…**...**

"We need a different strategy," Dr Clarkson concluded, as the team sat down on the bench at the end of the second game.

Yes, Isobel thought, to use a Miss O'Brien-ism, we flaming well do. 15-4 was just embarrassing.

"I should say so," Mrs Hughes agreed rather grimly to Dr Clarkson's right.

The doctor turned towards her.

"Mrs Hughes, I'm so glad you agree with me."

The team fell silent, looking towards the housekeeper, watching her expression. The muscle in her jaw tightened momentarily, before she undid the belt of her coat, laid it down on the bench beside her and rolled up her- or, more accurately, Mr Carson's- sleeves, without saying a word. There seemed to be a collective sigh of relief among the team.

Dr Clarkson set about inspecting the damage to Matthew's hand.

"It will be alright for the second half," the doctor concluded.

Matthew, his thumb now starting to turn nicely black and blue cast his mother a doubtful look, but said nothing.

"Meanwhile, Mr Molesley, take a rest." There was little point contradicting this decision, for all Molesley put his heart and soul into the game, he just didn't have Mrs Hughes natural agility. Or so she'd heard Dr Clarkson say. She felt her chest constrict a little.

"And I also think," he told them, "A slight change in order. Lady Sybil, you stay on the left of Mrs Crawley, you two work well together, but Mrs Crawley, do try to be a little more patient; sometimes it really isn't clear if it should be a dig or a volley. Mrs Hughes to the left of Lady Sybil. Branson to Mrs Hughes' left, Thomas in front of him. And I," he seemed to sigh a little, "I shall go next to Mrs Crawley." 

Isobel fixed him with a stern look.

"And I shall try my best to keep my patience with you, Doctor," she told him tersely.

"Please do." 

…**...**

As if by some almighty miracle, things seemed to be going a little bit better in the second game. Sybil thought that she was going to have to admit that this miracle took the form of Mrs Hughes, though she was loathe to say it: the housekeeper seemed all too happy of her position as a buffer between herself and Tom. But Sybil could not fault her volleyball in the slightest. Unfortunately, the opposition had also caught on to this, and were doing all they could to avoid putting the ball near her.

They seemed to be employing a similar tactic with cousin Isobel. Either that, or Dr Clarkson was trying to be chivalrous and was returning at least half of the shots that should have been for her himself, even though on a couple of times it brought him dangerously close to having his face walloped as she expected to play the shot. But it was only 7-5 to Ripon: a little bit better than before.

Sybil was brought alarmingly back to earth by ball hitting the floor just out of Thomas' reach. It was a tricky shot, she doubted if she'd have been able to get there herself. But certain members of the crowd were not so sympathetic.

"Thomas, you flaming noodle!"

Miss O'Brien was apparently getting rather into it. Sybil saw Dr Clarkson shake his head, the strain was beginning to show: she knew he was desperate not to concede defeat to "that rogue, Philips" and if Downton lost this game, then they would have to win the next two and play extra one in order to stand a chance of victory.

Fortunately, though, it was Sybil's turn to serve. If there was one thing she could do in this game, it was deliver a blinder of a serve. And this she did, earning her an approving little smile from her Cousin at the net. 8-6. And then another; 8-7. One more point and they would actually be on a level with the other team. Good grief.

Sybil bounced the ball twice at her feet before scooping it up and delivering it smoothly over the net. It did not, however, land smoothly in the centre of the court as it had done before; Ripon were ready for it. Once it was returned, however, Mrs Hughes- God bless the woman- managed to dig it, towards Sybil, who managed to dig it to Mrs Crawley's right hand side and she was able to volley it to the other side. But Ripon, evidently accustomed to her tyranny at the net, swooped in two players to receive it, and managed to set it up for a shot straight back over the net. Unfortunately, it was one of those situations where it was unclear which player- Dr Clarkson or Cousin Isobel- should go for it. And so both of them did. The thing was that Cousin Isobel went for it with such energy, that she seemed to travel faster than the ball itself, and it soared past her ear, over her head, as she went flying into Dr Clarkson and they landed in a tangled heap on the floor. Sybil clapped a hand to her forehead in disbelief. There went the hopes of an even score, then.

As the team hurried around the pair to see if they were alright, Sybil could not help but notice how her cousin certainly hadn't elected to scramble straight back up. Perhaps she was unable to. Over her shoulder she heard Thomas wolf-whistle rather cruelly, and she saw Mrs Hughes swiftly clip him around the ear. When Cousin Isobel did get up, it was with a decidedly flushed face.

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	6. Chapter 6

**Half Time: Team-Talks and Scheming **

It was safe to say that half time could not have arrived soon enough if it had tried. Already feeling exhausted, the team made their way off the court as quickly as possible. Branson sat down beside Isobel very heavily. She felt Elsie, dabbing gingerly at the lip she had almost bitten through when returning a dig pretty vehemently, rest her weary head on her shoulder. Unable to find anything else, she had resorted to borrowing the handkerchief in Mr Carson's pocket. There was much bustle from the crowd- particularly, Isobel noted bitterly, from the spectators from Ripon- as they got up to stretch their legs for twenty minutes or so.

Once their esteemed team manager had dragged himself off the court, and away from talking vigorously to Dr Philips, the mood seemed to flatten altogether. At any rate, they all fell mutinously quiet- especially Thomas-; this was the man who had brought them all here to meet their downfall: the memory of their having chosen to try out for the team conveniently banished. To his credit, Dr Clarkson seemed to sense this hostile atmosphere.

"Well," he spoke with the air of someone clutching at straws to find something positive to say, "That could have gone better. But on the other hand, it could also have gone a lot worse."

"Easy for him to say," Elsie muttered to Isobel, "His lower lip's intact."

Though she would have usually been given to snort at a remark such as this, Isobel remained silent. She was very conscious of the tumble she and the doctor had taken during the previous game, and they had not said a word directly to each other ever since; she did not want to make things any more awkward by antagonising him more than she had done already.

"But," Dr Clarkson continued valiantly, "We should not lose sight of the positives-..."

"What positives?" Thomas wanted to know, "To have anything at all to celebrate we'd have to start shouting "Happy Tuesday!" at each other."

No one seemed to be able to offer any substantial contradiction to this.

"We need a change of tactics," Branson muttered, and Matthew and Sybil both nodded their agreement.

"What do you suggest?" Dr Clarkson asked, quite politely.

Unfortunately Branson's idea did not seem to have progressed much further than that.

"We might as well face the fact," Matthew told them grimly, "That we need about three more of Mrs Hughes, and one more of Mother and then we'd be alright."

"Steady on, Matthew," Isobel told him, resting a hand on her son's arm, though she could not help but smile at the compliment that her son paid her. Not bad, she thought to herself with the slightest f smirks, being able to outrun the youngsters at her age. Not to mention the doctor. When she daringly glanced up at him, and he caught her smiling to herself, she remembered that there was a definite reason that she wasn't supposed to mention the doctor. She resolved to be more serious from then on, and tried to look solemn.

The bench got lighter as Thomas stood up.

"I'm going for a fag," he announced, and strolled off.

The team feel into an uneasy silence once more. It was hard not to feel utterly wretched, and there seemed to be little chance of things getting better any time soon. Isobel was suddenly seized by the need to get out of the hall; the air was almost oppressive in there.

"I'm going outside for a moment," she told them, "Mrs Hughes? Will you join me?"

Both Elsie and Sybil stood up, and followed her quite quickly from the room.

…**...**

"I can't believe we signed up for this!" she declared, pacing back and forth in agitation, her tennis skirt fluttering a little in the breeze.

"I didn't!" Mrs Hughes reminded her, dabbing resentfully at her lip, though it had long since ceased to bleed.

While most of the spectators were milling around the doors to the church hall, just out for a bit of fresh air or a smoke, they had crossed the road to sit on the park benches. Except that Isobel was too agitated to sit.

"It's not that bad," Sybil protested, "It would be enormous fun if we weren't losing so spectacularly."

Isobel cast a rather exasperated look at her optimistic young cousin. It seemed that Mrs Hughes was doing the same.

"Forgive me, m'Lady," she told her, "But at our age this isn't exactly _terrific _fun."

"Why are you here then?" Sybil asked them both.

"To prove a point!" Isobel snapped, "As you very well know; to prove a point that we're just as good at this as the young men and the doctor. Or, as it seems to have emerged, that they're just as bad at this as we are!"

Sybil could think of no argument to this, and Isobel sank down onto the bench beside Mrs Hughes.

"Only one more game to go," Sybil was still trying to remain positive, "If Ripon win this one, they'll have won the match and we can all go home."

That this was the best consolation they had seemed only to worsen the mood.

"If only we could somehow turn things around," Mrs Hughes mused.

"And how, precisely, do you suggest we do that?" Isobel asked her, "Heavens, Elsie, I wish we could just as much as you do, but the fact of the matter is that Ripon are just better than us, and that's an end to it."

"It needn't be an end to it."

Surprised by the sound of a fourth, more earthy voice, the three of them turned around to see who had spoken. Much to Isobel's great surprise it was Cora's lady's maid, O'Brien. She glanced for a moment towards Elsie. The housekeeper wore an expression that was curious to say the least; a mixture of mild disapproval and burgeoning hope. Sybil spoke first.

"What do you mean, O'Brien?"

Miss O'Brien looked mildly perturbed at having to offer her information so directly, perhaps she'd hoped to enjoy keeping them all in suspense for as long a s possible, but she couldn't very well refuse a request of Sybil's.

"Well, m'Lady," she perched, unasked, on the edge of the bench beside Sybil, but not one of them was about to reprove their potential saviour, "You needn't necessarily get better. You just have to make your opposition worse."

The three of them blinked at her for a second, taking in her meaning.

"I think there's a word for that," Isobel finally announced, "And it's "cheating". O'Brien you can't possibly think that we're _that _desperate_._"

Elsie turned towards her.

"Aren't we?"

Isobel did not reply except to shake her head at the lunatics she was in company with. She didn't like to think what Dr Clarkson would say if he could hear this conversation! Sybil, however, was looking thoughtful.

"It certainly would help," she said at last, "If we could in some way make it so that giant on the Ripon team was unable to play. Things would be a hundred times easier."

Now Isobel positively scoffed.

"And how do you suggest we do that?" she enquired of her cousin.

Mrs Hughes stepped in.

"One sharp, swift smash, aimed at the face."

Isobel recognised their pointed looks, and felt even more daunted by their idiocy. Perhaps O'Brien and even Sybil had always been like this, but she would have expected better of Mrs Hughes!

"You want me to do it?" she asked incredulously.

"I don't want you to do anything," O'Brien corrected her hastily, "I don't care two hoots if you lose or not, but I worry that Thomas might try to kill the doctor if he's made to look a fool much longer, and I don't want him locked up before his time. Also, Mr Carson's worried that Mrs Hughes is being mistreated; he went to fetch a cup of tea for the Dowager Countess and by the time he got back, she'd got herself a bloody lip."

It did not escape Isobel that Mrs Hughes seemed to be trying to stop herself blushing furiously. She rolled her eyes in frustration with all three of them.

"One sharp, swift smash at the face," Sybil repeated, blinking pseudo-innocently at her cousin, "For Mrs Hughes' sake, if no one else's."

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	7. Chapter 7

**Fourteen Hundred Hours requested a very long second half if I wasn't going to write the tie-breaker tonight, so here be a very long second half; I cannot deny The Grand Master. **

**The Second Half.**

When the Downton team returned to the court there was an atmosphere- which seemed to put Elsie off immediately- that no single word could describe; anxious, pessimistic, frightened, weary and edgy barely began to cover it.

They lined up: Ripon had the first serve, so Dr Clarkson had declared that the ladies should start in the front row and he, Branson and Matthew would take the back so that Sybil could rotate in and serve first when their time arrived. In fact, Dr Clarkson seemed to be declaring nineteen to the dozen at that moment; loudly calling out tactics and reminders to left and right.

"Now remember," he told them, "We have three things to think of: movement, communication and height. It's no good playing a beautiful shot only to have it catch on the net and land back on our side."

This observation had been fairly apparent to Isobel anyway, and she turned away from the doctor to face the net, where the Ripon team were filing on. She noted the tall man, whom she was meant to be sabotaging.

Mrs Hughes, to her left, was also fairly put out by their manager's rather condescending remark.

"And we," she hissed under her breath to Isobel and Sybil, "Have three men to think of. And keep in order. And avoid colliding with," she added, with a particularly pointed look at Isobel.

Sybil seemed to be trying to stop herself from laughing at this. Isobel sighed, running her hand over her brow in frustration. It had not escaped her notice that the strategic positioning of players on the court had been changed for the second half. While they had been next to each other before, side by side as it were, now she and the doctor were positioned so that four times out of six they would be as far away from each other as possible; except the times when their paths would cross in the middle and one would have to stand alternatively in front or behind the other. This was presently the case, he was standing straight behind her as he barked out masterful instructions; and here she was, not without some element of consolation, recalling how she had landed on top of him not half an hour ago. Her knees experienced a sudden feeling of unaccountable weakness. She wondered if he would consent to catching her should she fall. Probably not.

"Cousin Isobel?"

She snapped out of her reverie to see Sybil watching her with a concerned expression. As quickly as possible, she stirred herself to look alert.

"What?"

"Are you ready to go?"

Isobel looked over to the other side of the court where the giant of a man was getting ready to serve. She gave a brusque nod, and at the other side of the net Dr Philips shouted "Play".

The first serve landed out, and it was most fortunate that it did: had it hit any of the players it would have likely knocked them stone dead before they could decide whether or not the return ought to be a volley or a dig. This allowed Sybil to serve, and by the time she had taken her three shots and Ripon had lost their next serve, Downton were 5-0 in the lead. Dr Clarkson looked as if he could scarcely believe what he was seeing.

"Keep calm!" he told them all, furiously, under his breath, "Remain vigilant! We can't allow the tables to be turned on us."

Isobel found it hard not to roll her eyes as she walked to the back of the court to take her serve and Mrs Hughes passed the ball to her. From what she had seen today, the best way to make a person lose it altogether was to furiously tell them to keep calm. As well as this, when the housekeeper passed her the ball, she thought she saw something like a hint of daring in the housekeeper's eyes. As if by reflex, her own eyes wandered to the tall man of the Ripon team, standing in the middle of the back row. In the end, she decided that she did not quite dare aim directly at him from this distance- she was far too likely to miss, or have him return it too smoothly- and instead walloped the ball high into the air. There was a burst of movement from the Ripon team, before the ball was returned. Matthew managed to dig it from the back row to the front, Branson set it high into the air, and Mrs Hughes turned to offer a valiant smash over the net, that Isobel thought would surely made contact with the ground. But at the net, Dr Philips was too quick for her, smacking the ball straight back, almost knocking her to the ground as she attempted to return it.

Isobel saw Mr Carson rise indignantly to his feet, as Mrs Hughes stumbled a little and 5-1 to Ripon was called. Momentarily concerned for the poor woman, she hurried to the front of the court to help her up, but by the time she reach her, Mrs Hughes was already standing and giving Dr Philips a look that clearly said: "Filthy swine!" Isobel bit her lip and smiled; the look on the housekeeper's face rather brought to mind a line of Shakespeare she'd once heard: "Though she is but little, she is fierce."

Very fortunately, Ripon's next serve landed out as well. Catching the look on her son's face, she was not the only one on the team who was very conscious of the almost obscenely good luck they were having in this half; aside from Sybil's marvellous serving, most of their advantage was due to Ripon missing the court, and not by very far at that.

Now though, it was Mrs Hughes who was going to serve, and serve she did, with a good deal of force; so much, in fact, that Ripon almost struggled to return it. However, they just managed to tip the ball back over the net, and Downton were only spared the point by Dr Clarkson volleying the ball straight up into the air. Seeing it fall quickly, Isobel- despite what had happened before in terms of catastrophic collisions- ran as quickly as her temperamental knees would carry her and managed to keep it in the air. Then, with one shot remaining, Mrs Hughes jumped in, swinging her fist around with a phenomenal swoop and punched the ball straight across the net and down on Ripon's side of the court. Isobel's gut reaction was to jump on Mrs Hughes and kiss her; 7-1 in the lead- it was almost unthinkable! There was much applause for the housekeeper from the Downton spectators. Unfortunately, Isobel also caught a rather admiring glint in the doctor's eye as he watched the housekeeper retreat to the back of the net to take her next serve, and Isobel was fleetingly reminded of their established "Scottish camaraderie". She tried to tell herself that she was indignant purely for Mr Carson's sake.

…**...**

Spurred on by their success in the first eight points; their confidence restored- if they had ever had any in the first place-, the team seemed to be able to do no wrong in the second game of the first half. At the end of it, they left the court with in a much better frame of mind than they had come to it. Sybil was even smiling as they all took a quick drink of water and Dr Clarkson adjusted his shoe laces.

"Branson, you take a rest," he instructed, as the team prepared to go back on.

"Are you sure that's wise?" Matthew asked, and Isobel felt that she had to agree with him. The chauffeur had been rather critical in the last game.

"Yes, yes," the doctor replied dismissively, "Barrow you take a rest as well. We may need you for the tie-breaker game at the end."

Given the look on Mrs Hughes' face, Isobel was not the only one to realise that there was very little point in saving players for the tie-breaker if they lost this one! Molesley tried his best, poor man, but he wasn't quite-... well, he wasn't quite a Mrs Hughes, so to speak. On the plus side, nor was he as dissident as Mrs Hughes was, who was now whispering unashamedly to Sybil that men never had a clue what they were doing, and Sybil, by all appearances, was agreeing whole-heartedly, albeit in a way that probably wasn't meant to be as personally offensive to Dr Clarkson. Isobel now felt an unashamed pang, and wondered why the doctor was so apparently entranced with a woman who clearly thought he was an incompetent lunatic. She herself could not offer compariotship to the doctor, but at least she didn't think he was completely mad.

Sybil had already returned to the court with Matthew, and Isobel quickly followed Elsie as she set out in determined- or perhaps just quick and irritated- steps as she made her way back to her place. The two women exchanged a look, and all was made apparently clear tot he point where it was completely unnecessary for Elsie to speak. She did anyway.

"Now might be an excellent time to play that well-placed smash we talked about," Mrs Hughes told her in a low voice.

Isobel sensed that her own face was half-incredulous, half-imploring.

"We managed in the last game," she replied weakly, knowing full well what the counter argument to that would be, "I don't think I ought to... I feel so terrible just talking about it."

In response Mrs Hughes threw her the look that Isobel was sure was responsible for the main house having run so smoothly all these years. She for one was not about to offer any contradiction to it and walked into her place, feeling rather daunted.

By this time, both of the teams had returned to the court and play resumed. Two of Sybil's serves were successful, but the last one was returned. After that, Ripon scored from one of their own serves. Isobel saw Mrs Hughes biting her lip again as 2-2 was called. Ripon's next serve was also successful. She craned her neck and saw that it was her potential target doing the serving; no wonder no one could return a shot. 3-2.

This time when the ball came flying over the net- at a steep angle and mammoth speed- Dr Clarkson managed to get behind it and dig it quite clumsily. Thomas dug it again, and throwing her weight behind it in order for it to reach the net, Isobel just managed to return it. The shot was picked up, and bashed back and forward before it came flying back over to their side of the net. The crowd were getting interested, as they did with the lengthier and more skilful rallies; Isobel caught a fleeting glance of Cora's face- her mouth open slightly- as she watched her youngest come galloping forward to return the shot it one sharp swift motion. This threw rather Ripon- who had been expecting a more complex set up. 3-3. Sybil was patted on the back Matthew and received a quick clap on the shoulder from Dr Clarkson.

The serve returned to Downton and Mrs Hughes stepped up to take it. In a moment's distraction, Isobel saw Mr Carson clapping particularly proudly when Ripon's attempt were insufficient to return the shot. She did not, however, notice the woman in a dark hat and overcoat who settled herself in the front row of the audience, perched on the end of her seat.

Mrs Hughes took her next serve without further ado. The ball was sailing through the air, and it looked very much as if Ripon would return it, when the tall player whom they all so intensely antagonised ran too far forward and the ball fell squarely to the ground behind him. This provoked great displeasure from Dr Philips, who asked the man what on earth he was thinking of. Elsie later said that it rather looked like he didn't know what he was thinking of, he looked rather confused, as if he didn't quite know how he'd ended up a good foot too far forward. Almost as if someone in the front row had just reached forward and pushed him. Isobel's eyes fell on O'Brien; face cast down, nearly hiding behind her hat, in the front row. She exchanged an incredulous look with Mrs Hughes, who simply raised her eyebrows a fraction. 5-3 to Downton.

…**...**

"OUT!" Dr Clarkson all but roared, advancing towards the net with nothing short of fury in his face, pointing an accusatory finger squarely at Dr Philips.

Isobel had very rarely seen this side of him: she'd seen it, certainly, but only when he was nothing short of incensed. Goodness gracious me, she thought as she saw the slightly mad glint in his eye as he passed her. He looked almost wild with rage, and she felt a dash of excitement as she followed him to the net to join him in his protest: Ripon's shot had been out by miles, any fool could have seen that! It was 13-12 to Downton, and things were starting to get heated.

"Yes!" she caught up with him where he stood defiantly facing Dr Philip on the other side of the net, and stood by his side, "That can't possibly have been in!"

Dr Philips simply shook his head resolutely.

"In," he told them, not batting an eyelid despite the way they both appeared to be about to charge under the net and physically attack him.

That wouldn't be such a bad idea, she thought to herself. Mrs Hughes had appeared at her shoulder.

"There's no way in Heaven that was in," she told him quite calmly, but not without a hint of menace.

Faced with Mrs Hughes' best impression of a dragon, the doctor did seem to quake, but only a very little. Isobel turned towards the umpire; an elderly gentleman from Malton, to find that he was sound asleep in his chair, despite all of the noise that Richard was making beside her as he and Dr Philips argued vehemently.

"Play the point again," Matthew suggested.

"Yes," Sybil agreed, "That is the fairest way."

Isobel turned to these frustrating youngsters.

"But, my dears, that's not really the point," she told them, "We won that point. Or more accurately," she shot her best dirty look at Dr Philips, "They lost it, and they don't want it to go to our game point, so they're saying it was in!"

She turned back to Dr Clarkson, hoping he might agree with her, and was astonished to see something akin to in his face as he watched her pleading their case. Suddenly, she no longer cared if the pint was lost or won, she had forgotten what her argument was about. Her heart was racing with adrenaline and she wondered again if she might collapse.

Meanwhile, the audience was growing restless in the background.

"Play the point again," Dr Philips conceded begrudgingly, turning back into his place, "Don't listen to that wife of yours Clarkson, I think she's hysterical." 

It took Isobel a moment and Elsie's ill-disguised snort to realise to whom Dr Philips was referring. Her initial reaction was to protest that she most certainly wasn't hysterical. She didn't know whether or not to laugh, or if she should be alarmed that no on had troubled to correct him.

The point was replayed, and Downton won it. Match point. Isobel felt a crinkle of sweat break out on the back of her neck as she got ready for the serve to arrive. It looked almost as if it was not going to quite make it, but it snagged on the net, tipped over by the skin of its teeth and would have fallen straight to the ground if Mrs Hughes hadn't swiped it frantically back up into the air. Seizing her chance, Isobel jumped and smashed it over the net.

Once 15-12 had been declared, she hugged the housekeeper. Somehow they had made it to the tie-break.

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	8. Chapter 8

**I am very sorry about the massive, epic delay. And the brevity. **

One really had to admire Elsie Hughes- Richard Clarkson thought as he really looked at her for the first time during the match- standing there waiting for the next point, her face set in concentration, with the faintest trace of blood where she had bitten her lip too much. He would have to see that she dabbed at it with a cloth once they were finished. It was true to say that they certainly couldn't have managed to get this far without her, and to think she hadn't even wanted to play.

His train of thought was broken when- a little to his surprise- the ball came sailing over his head, thankfully to be taken by Matthew. Richard cursed himself for allowing himself to become so distracted at this critical stage, and sought to look very lively before anyone noticed his laxity. Glancing around quickly once Matthew's efforts had successfully levelled the score at ten-ten, he almost thought he'd got away with it, that is until he saw Isobel watching him rather shrewdly out of the corner of her eye. Curse and confound the woman!- of course it would be her who noticed his brief lapse of attention. And she was watching him with a faint strain of amusement in her face, knowing that she had caught him out, but not perhaps without a hint of confusion, like an inexplicable sadness, too. It became her face very well, he thought to himself.

He then realised that most of the inhabitants of the hall were watching him. It took a moment for him to realise that it was his turn to serve. Doubly curse and confound the woman! If he weren't so desperately smitten with her, he would be able to concentrate a bit more!

Almost begrudgingly, he took his serve quickly and play resumed.

…**...**

As the ball struck the court, none of them quite seemed to be able to believe it. In fact, silence seemed to reverberate around the village hall for a whole second, before applause exploded from the Downton supporters. Sybil was the first to recover; jumping up gleefully and hugging Matthew, simply because he was the nearest person to her. Having her hand wrung enthusiastically by Molesley, Isobel caught Elsie's eye.

"We won," she mouthed, not bothering to speak out loud above the din that had broken out.

Elsie looked even more astonished than Isobel felt, standing in the middle of the court, an expression of shock on her face, unable to believe that it was over so suddenly. When she had extracted herself from Molesley, Isobel made her way over to the side of the where the Downton spectators- naturally starting with the Dowager Countess- were lining up to congratulate Dr Clarkson. She thought it best not to get involved in that exchange for all manner of reasons. Instead she, almost shyly, walked up to the butler who was standing beside Lady Mary. She craned her aching feet and stood on her tiptoes so as to be able to talk to him quietly.

"I think someone over there might appreciate your help," she told him quietly, "I think she might need to get her bearings back."

Though at first Mr Carson seemed confused by this remark, when she nodded her head in the direction of Mrs Hughes, still looking rather dazed as Molesley now attempted to dislocate _her_ shoulder, he seemed to catch on; and looked down at Isobel rather disbelievingly. She only smiled.

"Go on," she told him, "Before Molesley does her an injury."

She watched with some amusement as- now with a conveniently chivalrous motive- the butler made his way over quickly, and defended Elsie from Molesley's advances. She almost did not notice that Dr Clarkson had now been freed from his audience with Cousin Violet. He smiled at her almost nervously, and for that she smiled back at him. Then, at this spectacularly inappropriate moment, she was seized by the memory of him landing on top of her. Or had it been the other way around? For a moment, she tried to keep a straight face, and then found she could not. Fortunately, though, he seemed to realise what exactly she found so funny without her having to say it, and chuckled too.

"Will you shake hands with me, Mrs Crawley?" he asked, seriously but for the slight twinkle in his eyes, "And forget the more... violent altercations from the match."

She eyed him for a moment, before reaching her hand out to take his.

"I'll forgive you for them, Doctor, but perhaps not forget them."

As their hands touched a bolt of electricity seemed to shoot through them. She tried to act as if she had been oblivious to it, but she rather suspected that she was unsuccessful.

…**...**

"What do you mean "The engine won't start!"?" Doctor Clarkson demanded, his voice travelling out through the open door of the bus.

Mr Branson stuck his rather exasperated face over the bonnet of the car, facing the passengers through the windscreen.

"I'm telling you, it won't go!" he told him, "I've tried three times and it won't go."

Sighing and shaking his head, Richard left his seat beside Isobel, made his way to the front of the bus and leapt down to see what the chauffeur was doing wrong. However, trying twice himself to get the motor going, he too seemed to concede defeat.

"I think someone's tampered with it," Branson said, looking contemptuously down at the offending engine.

"Robert, why aren't we going anywhere?"

"The bus won't start, Mother."

"Well all the men ought to get out and push us!"

Isobel turned round to face Mr Carson and Elsie in the seats behind her.

"If you'd asked me this morning, I wouldn't have said that getting us away from the match would be our biggest problem," she remarked, almost cheerfully.

"No," Elsie agreed vaguely.

It took Isobel a moment before she realised that she had caught the butler and housekeeper sitting in the back seat, inconspicuously holding hands. She turned back to face the front, trying not to smile.

"Edith," she asked, leaning forwards, "Couldn't you get out and see if anything's wrong?"

Cousin Edith looked about ready to be sick.

"Edith, what's the matter?" Isobel asked, alarmed. She had heard that small children sometimes reacted badly to motor travel, but she had assumed it was something one grew out of.

No, that wasn't it. She didn't look sick, she looked guilty.

"Oh, Edith," she whispered under her breath, "You didn't... Surely you knew better than to try and start a bus yourself?"

By the look on her young cousin's face, evidently she did not.

Isobel sighed, standing up herself now.

"Dr Clarkson," she called, as she jumped out of the door herself, "I think perhaps we'll be getting the train back."

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	9. Chapter 9

**Now it gets interesting. Not much actual volleyball in this one. The idea behind Dr Clarkson's noteworthy speech was pinched from _The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie. _**

It was absolutely typical, Isobel thought as they filed into the public house- with none too great a reluctance on the most part-, that on the day they found themselves stranded in Ripon there was a twenty-four hour strike of railway workers! A fairly radical member of the middle classes herself, she would normally have sympathised whole-heartedly with their cause, but found she was having difficulty given that now they were being forced to wait until the night train at half past midnight. Normally, there would have been a risk that there would have been insufficient carriages on the train to house most of the inhabitants of one of the largest country houses in Yorkshire, but Lady Violet had entered into none too reserved negotiations with the young man in the station office. By the time these were over, they were assured that their return to Downton would be amply provided for, and the young railway worker was looking very much as if he regretted his decision not to go on strike on that day.

There then arose the problem of what to do to fill in the time between the early evening and half past twelve; and someone- be they either genius or lunatic- had suggested setting up camp in the public house; which would keep them sheltered almost until it was time for the train. Isobel personally suspected that this particular person answered to the description of Mr Branson, but she would be unwilling to swear to it as the proposition was met by such widespread enthusiasm from most of the younger contingent. A great deal of excitement ensued as they entered- particularly from Edith who confessed to never having been in a public house at opening time before- as well as a great deal of concern from Violet's direction that her granddaughters would fall prey to of the more daring members of the lower orders who happened to be in the pub at that time.

However, this concern abated once it emerged that all three of the girls would be well looked after- either by Matthew, Branson, or their own reluctance to move further than three feet away from Robert and Cora in their nervous excitement- and Violet's nerves settled down enough for her to have a drink herself. It was roughly at this point that Isobel decided she would do best to leave the table that the Crawley family all seemed to be inhabiting and went off to the bar in search of Elsie. However, upon discovering the housekeeper she decided it would not do to interrupt her either; she and Mr Carson seemed only to have eyes for each other this evening- sitting beside each other in the quieter corner of the pub, talking in low voices, and apparently oblivious to the rest of the world.

Isobel turned away smiling to herself. She took up a seat alone at the bar, ordered a small sherry and stared contentedly off into space. She would never have thought that playing volleyball could cause such a tremendous wave of romance among her friends and family.

"Good evening, Mrs Crawley."

She turned her head to see Dr Clarkson standing beside her, leaning casually against the bar.

"Good gracious," she replied tiredly, looking around for a clock, "Is it still only evening?" 

He consulted his pocket watch.

"Ten past eight," he told her.

She groaned.

"I'm glad to hear that the prospect of my company brings you such unconscionable joy," he remarked dryly, taking up the seat beside her.

"It's not that," she replied, "I'm just not sure whether or not we'll all hold out here before someone we know embarrasses themselves really quite badly."

The doctor glanced around the room, taking the relative states of their companions.

"I wouldn't say it's a case of _if _someone will embarrass themselves," he remarked levelly, "But how long it will be until they do. And who will be the first to. Who do you think will be the first to?" he enquired pleasantly.

Isobel surveyed the state of things for herself.

"O'Brien," she decided, given that the lady's maid was presently trying to engage Mr Bates in a dance, "Or Branson,"- who had already twice tried to serenade Sybil with 'If You Were the Only Girl in the World' but had been twice stopped by a sharp prod in the back with a walking stick-, "Or... oh, any of them really!" she finally exclaimed, "Molesley's only drinking shandy and Mr Carson and Elsie don't seem to be interested in drink at all, but apart from that, I think we're the only two sober people in the building!"

With that, she drained her glass of sherry.

"Can I buy you another drink, Mrs Crawley?" he asked politely.

…**...**

Given that by quarter to twelve, he was both the most sober and most alert member of the Downton party, Carson was left in charge of leading them all to the station. They arrived successfully, but, with twenty minutes to spare before the train arrived, found themselves at a loss for what to do to keep warm during the time between.

Finally- all of them shivering slightly- the train arrived, but without the extra carriage that Lady Violet had been promised. There was much hullabaloo at the realisation of this, and Lady Violet was in the end bundled into the train- cursing Mr Lloyd George, who she supposed to be to blame for the entirety of this fiasco. Fortunately, Isobel was able to find her way into a compartment which was mostly full of people she knew. Only one stranger sat in the compartment along with herself, Dr Clarkson, Molesley, Mr Carson and Elsie.

By the time they had pulled out of Ripon station, Mrs Hughes was soundly asleep against the butler's shoulder. Molesley sat demurely in the corner and did not say much at all, though Isobel was sure that he was not asleep. So, once again, the only companion available for conversation was Dr Clarkson; and she had to admit that as the evening had worn on she had grown increasingly sick of the man. All he had done was sit there with her, talking about the most ridiculous things, and buying her drink after drink as if that could make up for it. And what was more, this was the man who all but squashed her earlier that day. This in mind she turned to him:

"Why did you jump on me earlier?" she asked impressively, jabbing her finger into his chest as she did so, "You could have killed me! I know you're a doctor, but that's no excuse at all. I'm surprised my son hasn't thrashed you to within an inch of your life for insulting his mother- I will have to speak to him about that-," she made a verbal note to herself, "Unless," she wondered, with great suspicion in her tone now, "That was your plan all along. Yes, and in fact, you secretly enjoyed throwing me on the floor and jumping on me! No," she reminded herself, "That would be even more wicked of you! You just wait until I see Matthew!"

His reply was generally incomprehensible to her- as he had no doubt intended- and so she did not feign willingness to listen to his attempts to justify his appalling behaviour; indeed, from the vague fragments she did catch he seemed to be trying to blame the whole incident on her. Instead she turned her head proudly in the air and away from him.

Facing in this new direction now, she saw Molesley watching her with apparent concern.

"Molesley!" she addressed him slightly more loudly than necessary, surprising herself, "Are you alright? Why are you staring at me man?" 

"Are you quite alright, Ma'am?" he enquired with great caution.

"Alright? Of course I'm alright?" she assured him- she could not help but feel that she would have been more convincing if the train jolting at that very moment hadn't caused her to hiccough vigorously- "At least, I would be," she continued, "If this scoundrel," clumsily, she tried to clip to doctor around the ear but missed by several inches- "Hadn't tried to flatten me earlier today. Always has been too excitable," she informed him shrewdly.

She was about to turn back to scold the doctor again when she caught sight of the stranger in the compartment. He too was watching her with great apprehension.

"Good evening, my good man!" she addressed him jovially, "What brings you to be on a train at this late hour?"

The man- a tall young fellow- straightened up in his seat upon being addressed.

"I'm on my way to Downton to see the constable, Ma'am," he informed her. Although he was perfectly polite in answering what was- after all- quite a nosey question, what he said was enough to put the fear of God into her.

"Good Lord, Richard!" she exclaimed, jumping around to face the doctor, grabbing his hand tightly in hers, and suddenly realising just how drunk she was, "It's the police!"

The young man was saying something else, but her brain- panic stricken- was too befuddled to take any of it in. Suddenly, a brilliant, brilliant, work-of-a genius plan of escape occurred to her. Grinning swiftly at Dr Clarkson, squeezing his hand tightly between hers, she turned back to the young man.

"I'm afraid you're going to have to excuse us, Officer, if we seem a little out of sorts, " she told him, and then with even greater dignity, "You see, we've just been married."

The background silence seemed to grow louder as Carson and Molesley took in this declaration, but Isobel did not especially notice.

"Yes," she told the officer, "Married, as married, as married, are Richard and I. Only he got very excitable and tripped over me at the wedding reception, dear soul that he is," she ruffled his hair with enthusiastic affection, "Oh, but I'm just happy that he married me first!"

…**...**

Getting off the train in the dark was understandably quite difficult. Getting off the train in the dark and remaining upright was even more so. Branson was despatched to the house to fetch the motor to take Lady Violet back to the main house, while the rest of them were told they could either wait for the motor to come back and get them, or walk. Isobel elected to walk.

"Mother, are you sure that's wise?"

She turned to her son, and was surprised to find that she was taller than him, then realised she was standing on the step above him.

"I'll thank you, Matthew," she told the top of his head, "To ask if things are wise at more opportune moments! For instance, you might, have asked if things were wise before I allowed myself to be married to Richard and for him to parade me on a train as his lawfully wedded wife, but where were you then?" 

"Who the devil is Richard?"

"My dear boy! Dr Clarkson!"

"Dr Clarkson?"

"What's happened?" she heard a voice that sounded like Sybil nearby, "What's going on?"

"Cousin Isobel and Dr Clarkson have been married," Mary's voice- filled with quite genuine shock- replied.

Isobel was about to protest that that wasn't what she had meant at all, but found herself being pulled towards the station gate. Turning, she realised that the hand in hers was her "husband's".

"If you are walking home," he declared gruffly, "I am making sure you get there safely." 

"Oh, Dr Clarkson!" she laughed merrily, as he continued to pull her along behind him, "You are gallant!"

She skipped happily along behind him, tripping ever so slightly over her own feet, as he lead her up to the main street and along the pavement towards her house. Then, just before they got there, he stopped under the dim glow of the street light, turned to her and said in a low impassioned voice:

"Mrs Crawley, I am catastrophically sorry that I almost squashed you today. You should be more careful, when you play volleyball, to watch where you are going. I hope I have not physically injured you. If you have hurt yourself then you had best see you get bandaged up. I am sorry that my behaviour in the public house may have caused you embarrassment. When in public houses, you would do better to not let strange men get you drunk! If you wanted to say you were married to me, you would only have ever had to ask. There was no need to tell such a monstrous lie!"

So confused was she by this noteworthy speech, that she did not know what to do. It had confused her at every possible turn.

Given that they were still standing under the lamppost five minutes later, she had obviously decided that the best course of action was to kiss him heartily.

Breaking away, she lead him this time along the street and up the path to the front door of Crawley House.

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	10. Chapter 10

In the end, the best course of action she could resolve herself to was to lie very still indeed, pretending to have fallen back to sleep until she heard him get up and leave the front room. She lay absolutely still for another few moments, and then, starting with her left eye first, began to manoeuvre herself very gingerly; first off the couch, then to the door and eventually down the hallway into the dining room. Molesley, who was bringing in the breakfast, tried- politely- not to look too appalled at her appearance; and for the most part failed.

"It's alright," she told him grimly, making her way to her chair and throwing herself down, "You're not hallucinating. I know I don't flatter myself to say I've looked considerably better in my time, Molesley."

At this remark, Matthew lifted his head from his newspaper; studied her for a second; and pursed his lips in such a way that conveyed particular amusement. She glared unashamedly at her son.

"Oh, ha ha ha," she very nearly spat at him.

He hid his head once more behind his newspaper as she propped her head up on her arm, in order to make sure it stayed on- it was hurting just about fit to fall off.

"Where's he gone?" she asked suddenly; a thought striking her a particularly unforgiving blow.

"Where's who gone?" Matthew was not even trying to disguise his smile now, "Your husband?"

She glared at him again.

"He's in the bathroom, Ma'am," Molesley- hovering nervously near the sideboard- cut in, "He said he wanted to smarten himself up before he went home. Ought I to have sent him straight out?"

She shook her head, with some difficulty.

"No, Molesley, it's alright. Let him sort himself out. What the devil is this that I'm drinking?" 

"It's coffee, Ma'am. Mrs Bird thought it might... might ease the after-effects a little, as it were."

"Did she now?" Isobel asked incredulously- not knowing whether to reprimand her cook's presumption or praise her spontaneity. To be honest, she didn't really feel up to either. "Oh, Molesley, you know I detest coffee. Anyway, I read that it's dreadfully bad for dehydration after alcohol." 

It should not have surprised her that she caught her son watching her incredulously over the top of his newspaper.

"What's the matter with you, Matthew?"

"Well," he began, folding his newspaper as he spoke, "You're rather unbelievable, Mother. Trust you to be thinking of those medical journals you read at a time like this! Didn't any of their advice occur to you yesterday evening, before you took it upon yourself to drink most of Ripon under the table? And that's saying nothing of what happened once the drink was in you!"

He was not scolding her, if anything he seemed to be rather in awe. For a few moments, she gave him a cold, hard, hungover stare.

"I don't quite know how to take that, Matthew."

He sighed, pouring himself another glass of orange juice.

"What I mean to ask you, Mother- I might as well come out with it-; what did happen between you and Dr Clarkson yesterday evening? One minute you tell me you've married him and then...-" he jerked his head tactfully in the direction of the drawing room, "Then I find he's paid you a call, to say the very least."

"I did not tell you I'd married him," she told him shortly.

He nodded his head plaintively.

"I rather think you did." 

She rubbed her hand rather desperately across her painful eye: it did not help that she could not remember anywhere near as much as she needed to. Looking up at her son with quite bleary vision she said:

"Well- in a very sober state- I have not married him. I think."

…**...**

Once she'd washed her hair and had a bath, she chose her most respectable pale blue dress- that came up beyond her collar bone, hiding the rather telling little mark there-, and put on her string of pearls to go with it. She pulled her hair back high and away from her face, and dabbed some lavender oil on her wrists. She contemplated taking along the Bible with her if it would help her to look any more wholesome, but decided that it was too much to carry. The strategy was to see if she could make everyone believe that they had simply imagined whatever they had witnessed of her behaviour last night.

She did not know quite why, but now she felt a compulsion to go and see Mrs Hughes. There was nothing preventing her from doing so and she got the feeling that it would ease her mind a great deal to do so. Her only concern was attracting odd looks from her relatives or the other servants before she found the housekeeper.

Happily though, Elsie was the first person she came across when she let herself nervously in through the back door. To say she received an enquiring look would be an understatement.

"So you're up and about?" Elsie asked, opening the door to her sitting room and indicating that Isobel should go inside.

"Of course I am," Isobel told her, almost crossly, sitting down on the settee, "What did you think?"

"Well, one does hear things," the housekeeper told her.

"And does one believe everything one hears?"

"Well," Elsie began again, "You're right, I can't know anything for sure for myself. I was asleep for quite a bit of the way back. But," she added apprehensively, "What I _did _see might seem to make sense in relation to what I've heard. For instance, I did see you and Dr Clarkson... indulging yourselves somewhat when we were still in Ripon."

"And how would that fit in with what you've heard?" Isobel asked, not without some sense of dread creeping into the back of her throat.

"Well there were reports of a kissing couple of... mature years being seen under the lamppost outside Crawley House last night."

Isobel felt herself turn crimson, but made haste to recover herself.

"Elsie," she told her, "I do remember some things about yesterday evening, and one of them was the way you and Mr Carson were behaving around each other. Now, look me in the face and tell me honestly that you weren't kissed yesterday evening, at the very least." 

Although the housekeeper blushed faintly, she answered perfectly smoothly:

"That's neither here nor there, as I wasn't beneath a public lamppost at the time. Anyway, that's not all. Mr Bates was at the post office this morning and he met a young man who is visiting from York. He's the constable's brother, and he was telling Mr Bates a rather comical story about a lady he unintentionally alarmed yesterday evening who seemed to think he was a policeman himself, and then claimed very vigorously to have just been married. That wouldn't happen to ring any bells with you, would it?" 

At the end of this, Isobel was quite successfully mortified, so much so that she had to rest her glowing forehead in the palm of her hand for a moment.

"Have you spoken to him since?" the housekeeper spoke in a softer tone now.

Isobel shook her head glumly.

"No," she replied, thinking of the hysterical words they had exchanged upon waking, "Not properly."

Mrs Hughes gave rather a knowing nod.

"So what do you intend to do?" she asked.

Isobel evaluated her options for a moment.

"With your permission, stay in this until the excitement dies down entirely," she concluded, "About a year should do it."

Elsie gave her a stern look.

"Seriously."

"I am being serious."

"Look," Elsie told her, "I grant you, you've got yourself into a spot of trouble with the doctor, I don't think there's anyone who'd deny that. But how much trouble that is depends on what you do next. You never know what you can resolve. I wouldn't be at all surprised if was open to the idea of peace negotiations. He did kiss you, after all," she added, with a small smile.

"With goodness knows how much alcohol in him," Isobel added helplessly, "Elsie, what have I done?"

Mrs Hughes gave her an odd look, that was not altogether disapproving.

"You've gone and seen some of life," she told her, "It's a strange thing, isn't it?"

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	11. Chapter 11

"Molesley, I think my waking up at all this morning was a very bad idea," Isobel called to the butler as she took off her coat and hat and hung them on the coat-stand in the hall, "I ought to have slept through about a week, I think, and then everyone might have forgotten about me."

Molesley was evidently still quite alarmed by the display of events that he had seen at breakfast that morning, because he hovered halfway down the stairs, rather than coming all the way down to meet her. But Isobel couldn't blame him. She did not have the energy to.

"I'm going for a lie down," she told him wearily, making her way down the hall, "Wake me up if the house catches fire, but not for anything less serious."

"Ma'am, if you're wanting a lie down, why are you going to the sitting room?" he asked, taking a nervous step down the stairs, "Won't you be more comfortable in your room?"

"No, Molesley, I've thought about this. The light will be around that side of the house, but it will be getting nice and dark in the sitting room. Please don't make me justify myself any more, I don't think I can stand to. Tell Matthew not to come charging in."

"But, Ma'am, that might not be a very good idea-..."

She ignored him, turning the handle of the sitting room door and letting herself in, ready to simply fall over onto the first sofa or chair she found.

That was until she came across the reason that Molesley had protested against her entering the sitting room. She stood in the doorway, holding onto the handle to keep herself upright, blinking, not quite believing this next turn for the worst that her luck had taken. She felt Molesley- who had apparently run down the last few stairs to try to catch her up- appear behind her shoulder.

"There's a visitor, Ma'am," he told her, unnecessarily, "Dr. Clarkson."

"Yes, Molesley, I can see that."

…**...**

Having sent Molesley to fetch them some tea- if only to get him out of the way, he had made the situation, if possible, even more awkward by goggling at them both in his horror- Isobel settled herself much more primly than she had originally intended on the sofa opposite the doctor. He at least had the good grace to look moderately abashed. The silence was such a prominent participant in this meeting that it seemed to be singing songs at them, and comical ones at that. Finally he cleared his throat, with considerable unease, and spoke.

"I hope you are... alright," he told her, evidently a little stuck for words, "That is, I hope you are quite well, after-... after-..." He seemed to decide that nodding empathetically, and gesticulating gratuitously would suffice instead of any of the words he was looking for, which made Isobel think that none of them were particularly complimentary.

"I'm fine, thank you," she told him curtly, resisting the temptation to add _No thanks to you_, on the end of it. Yes, she knew most of it was entirely her fault for having drunk so much, but a tiny a part of her was nagging that she was not usually given to drinking, and had he not bought her so much to drink she certainly would not have got as drunk as she had done. This however sentiment, however, almost completely confused her tired brain enough just by thinking it, and if she attempted to articulate it to him, she had no doubt that she would get into a dreadful muddle. So she didn't.

He looked for a moment as if he was about to say something, but he did not get the chance as Molesley arrived with the tea.

They sat in perfect silence as the tea was distributed to them. Thankfully, Molesley seemed to sense that his being there as a witness was only making things a hundred times more awkward, and so left; either that or the atmosphere was simply so much that he had to make a break for it.

Having been given a teacup to hold, Isobel was afforded something fresh to examine so that she could avoid looking at doctor directly. So engrossed was she in examining the pattern of the saucer that she was genuinely taken aback when he did speak.

"Look here, Mrs Crawley," he told her firmly, brusquely almost, "Although of course I called round here to see that you were well, I also mean to sort this blasted mess that we've made for ourselves out."

She was quite taken aback by this sudden leap into action, and so could not quite organise her thoughts into a proper order, before her mouth started to talk anyway.

"That _we've_ made?" she repeated; the nagging little part of her brain was apparently the part that controlled what she said. Her incredulity and frustration, at the entire course of events suddenly sprang into full flow, "Forgive me, Dr. Clarkson, but as I remember, it was _you_ buying the drink!"

To his credit, he remained relatively calm in spite of the violence of this outburst.

"I was hardly forcing down your throat, Mrs Crawley," he reminded her tersely.

This was true, she could think of no argument to that. She decided, then, to ignore it and attack from another angle.

"You do realise that now most of the house, if not the whole village, thinks we are married?" she demanded of him.

He shuffled his hands awkwardly.

"I have," he admitted, "Going about my business this morning, received a few remarks that would have seemed to suggest something along those lines. From Lady Violet in particular."

For this last note, she found she could offer nothing but sympathy, try as she might to remain entirely cross with him.

"Oh no," she groaned, "I've been studiously avoiding her all day. Was she at the hospital? I'm surprised you were able to go about your business there, as you put it. Haven't you got a sore head?" she added this last not without a hint of envy.

He almost gave her a smile then.

"Some people are considerably better at holding their alcohol than you are, Mrs Crawley," he informed her.

"I do not take that remark very well, Dr. Clarkson. Or give it any credit, indeed. From what little I do remember of last night, I seem to recall that your actions were just as out of sorts as mine."

"I hardly think I'd say tha-..."

"You allowed me to tell a complete stranger that we were married, and did not say one word to stop me!" she told him triumphantly, confidant that this was a point she could certainly score, "If I was acting out of sorts, then you were as well!"

_Well done, Isobel_, she thought once he seemed not to be able to think of a reply. She was not prepared, however, for the very earnest look he gave her.

"And were you speaking out of sorts, Mrs Crawley?" he asked her.

She got the feeling that that wasn't what he was asking her at all, but she couldn't be sure.

"In terms of facts," she began slowly, considering her words very carefully, "Yes, I suppose you'd say I was."

"In terms of facts you were telling downright fibs," he pointed out.

"Well, how was I to know that he wasn't really a policeman?" she asked incredulously, "I know one thing, if he had been I would have saved our skins! We'd have been in real trouble for being that drunk on public transport!"

"Do you think he believed you?" he asked, a decided note of doubt creeping into his tones.

She refused to be wrong-footed by that.

"That's not the point at all," she countered swiftly, pleased to be able to get into some kind of flow with her argument, "The fact that remains, that if he had been a real policeman, and if it had been left to you to get us out of trouble, we would probably both be locked up at this very moment! You didn't have a clue how to trick a policeman, not to put too fine a point on it, Richard, you were useless!" 

Perhaps she had gone too far, he looked rather hurt by that remark. She hastened for something to say to put it right.

"But don't worry. I was entirely content with the excuse I came up with for us."

He raised an eyebrow at that.

"Were you? Isobel?"

"Yes, Richard. I think I was."

**Nothing like an odd note to finish on. The End.**

**Thank you for reading! Please review if you have the time. **


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